


Headlights

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:19:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Imayoshi probably wants something, and Susa’s probably going to end up giving it, however opposed he is on principle (and specifically to whatever Imayoshi’s asking for).





	Headlights

**Author's Note:**

> tysm eliska for the prompt (susaima + headlights)! hbd imayoshi~

Imayoshi’s eyes are like headlights at noon, Susa thinks as the ball rolls off his fingertips. He knows it’s going to miss before it caroms off the backboard; they’re not even practicing rebounds right now. Susa doesn’t have to look at Imayoshi to know the appraisal in his eyes, the half-serious frown on his lips, the mock-disappointment in his favorite forward. And Imayoshi makes no secret that he plays favorites, but his favorites are always the ones who play their roles and contribute, so there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

They’ll talk, but what they say is of no importance, mouthless moths buzzing around a flickering light, unable to bite at anything. Susa waits in line for his next turn through the drill and thinks about Imayoshi’s eyes again, across the court, behind his glasses. You can rarely tell they’re on and looking until they’re a meter away, and by then, it’s too late; Imayoshi’s about to hit you like car doing twice the speed limit. Susa passes the ball across the way; Sakurai takes the shot. It falls, quick and precise, into the hoop; Susa jogs back.

If Sakurai were a car, he’d be something small and practical, maybe a two-door Honda Civic from the eighties with outrageous gas mileage. If Imayoshi were a car, he’d be—what gets the best zero-to-sixty-back-to-zero? Susa, city kid that he is, has no clue. Maybe Imayoshi’s a tractor, one of those farm vehicles. A pickup truck. Susa snorts at the thought, Imayoshi’s extended truck bed or automatic beer window—what would those even be metaphors for? Susa’s lost the thought, the analogy, if there ever really was one.

“Susa,” Imayoshi calls.

Susa glances back; the drill’s not over. Imayoshi’s crooking his finger, the wrong kind of come-hither gesture for practice and he fucking knows it. Imayoshi probably wants something, and Susa’s probably going to end up giving it, however opposed he is on principle (and specifically to whatever Imayoshi’s asking for).

“I seem to have lost the practice schedules.”

He’s smirking, like he knows exactly where he’d damn well put them, and Susa sighs.

“Did you check your locker? Your schoolbag? On top of your bookcase? Coach’s desk?”

(Coach is nearly as disorganized as Imayoshi, if that’s possible.) Imayoshi nods.

“Momoi probably has them,” Susa says. “Ask her.”

(If she doesn’t, her fucking steel-trap mind has a copy.)

Imayoshi pouts. “Susa.”

“We’re in practice, Imayoshi.” (Susa's nearly gritting his teeth as he says it.)

“Can you help me search the locker room? It’ll go twice as fast.”

That’s the worst line Imayoshi’s used on him yet. Susa looks back at the rest of his teammates, running through the drills. The lines are uneven; everyone’s switching partners—maybe it’s useful, mixing everything up and getting everyone to learn each other’s style. People always say Touou has no teamwork, after all (kind of a ridiculous statement, just because they’re not all the best of friends—but maybe there’s a grain of truth to it and it can’t hurt to tune it up). Susa sighs.

“Sure.”

Imayoshi doesn’t bother to hide his glee, and Susa’s almost surprised Imayoshi doesn’t grab his hand on the way.

He makes a show of looking through the lockers, peeping in the bottom ones and asking Susa to help with the top because he’s so much taller (Susa mutters something about flattery, because he still has to stand on his toes and Imayoshi’s probably doing this not even to flatter but to get a good look at his ass).

“Imayoshi,” says Susa. “They’re definitely not—”

Imayoshi pulls him down into a kiss before he can finish the sentence, apparently all of a sudden tired of wasting time here, pushing his tongue into Susa’s mouth, fingers pulling and stretching the shoulders of Susa’s shirt. Susa’s hands come to rest on Imayoshi’s waist, fingers brushing at his hipbones, jutting out under his skin (how he can weigh so little and still be so strong and damn near unbreakable is pretty far down on the list of mysteries about Imayoshi, but it’s still on there).

Imayoshi licks the inside of Susa’s lips, presses his body closer, inching Susa back toward the lockers (pushing him against them might be something straight out of the shitty yaoi manga Susa’s sister loves but it fucking hurts, all that metal jutting straight into his back). Susa tries to hold him into place, running his tongue along the bottom row of Imayoshi’s teeth. He wonders, for a second, where Imayoshi’s actually hidden the practice schedule, but it doesn’t fucking matter really.

“Susa,” Imayoshi says, low in his throat, almost like a growl, and even as Susa’s thinking how not-particularly-sexy it is, it hits him in his gut and he almost moans.

Imayoshi grins against Susa’s mouth and then breaks the kiss, fingers skimming down the front of Susa’s torso, flicking off all the objections (they have to go back to practice really fucking soon; they need to actually get the practice schedules; they need to be practicing right now; they don’t have time for any of this in the first place) before Susa can even begin to voice them, turning them into a creaking groan from Susa’s chest. Imayoshi’s smirk grows wider, and Susa can’t look away from it.

“Fuck, Imayoshi—”

It’s exactly what Imayoshi wants him to say; he looks pleased and satisfied and like he’s won this round because everything is a competition with him.

The door to the locker room slams open; Imayoshi pushes Susa off and they’re both breathing hard.

“Hey! There you are. Coach is looking for you,” says Wakamatsu.

“We’d just misplaced the practice schedule,” says Imayoshi. “Look, here it is—it was on my clipboard the whole time!”

Susa narrows his eyes; he’s definitely suggesting that first next time. Wakamatsu shrugs at them, clearly not sensing anything off, seeing Imayoshi’s swollen lips or Susa’s very rumpled practice shirt for what they are. They follow Wakamatsu out, walking close enough for their fingers to brush and briefly tangle together.

**Author's Note:**

> .....susa's been spending too much time around aomine with that kind of extended metaphor lmao


End file.
